


Mirror, Mirror

by MembraneLabs



Series: It's not a Machine it's a beautiful lady and we love her [1]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Trek Fusion, Canon-Typical Violence, Carter is the Sulu, Fusco is the Chekov, Gen, Harold is the Scotty and the Spock, Mostly Gen, Nathan is the Kirk, Nathan lives!, Pre-Slash, Reese is goatee!Spock, Root is the Uhura, Shaw is the Bones, The Author Regrets Nothing, Vulcan!Harold, but she both rues and laments, dubious mind meld consent, slow burn for all my ships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-10-13 08:47:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10510356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MembraneLabs/pseuds/MembraneLabs
Summary: A transporter accident sends Captain Nathan Ingram, Lieutenant Commander Chief Engineer Harold Finch, Chief Medical Officer Dr. Sameen Shaw, and Lieutenant Samantha Groves to a parallel universe.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FantasyPrincess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FantasyPrincess/gifts).



Lieutenant Commander Chief Engineer Harold Finch knew the ion storm would be an issue, but they could not afford the possible week-long delay if they lingered planet-side. Their mission had been completed a cycle earlier, and they had already spent too long catching up with their old friend Arthur and the remains of his extraordinary work. Even though his mind was failing, the sweetness and good humor that were in Arthur’s very bones was a bittersweet joy for the half-Vulcan. The confrontation with their old Academy friend’s decline had seemed to affect Nathan far more--then again, Nathan had always taken decay personally. For Harold, it was the unfortunate but natural state of all matter, although there seemed a particular irony that Arthur was losing his memories, his mind just like--

Harold had sent his recalculations to Transporter Chief Szymanski. It was not meant as a slight to the man’s ability, but Lieutenant Groves was having difficulty keeping an open channel with the ship’s computer--if the ion storm was already affecting their communications, he worried it might be affecting its ability to compensate for transporter abnormalities. 

“Harry, when we get back onboard, I’ll need to run some diagnostics. I can’t quite make it out but she’s not making sense,” Lieutenant Groves had said, frowning at her tricorder.

“The Enterprise is a ship, Lieutenant, not a person.

“She knows you don’t mean that, Harry.”

Harold had frowned in turn, but knew asking her not to use her nickname for him was a losing battle. Besides, if he said anything Nathan would just offer some ridiculous quip. He was convinced that Groves was good for Harold, and while Harold greatly appreciated her stunning intellect and ability, Nathan’s perverse glee was just...illogical. 

“Look, can we cut the long goodbyes?” Dr. Shaw interrupted as another burst of energy cut across the sky. “If I’m going to get scrambled I’d like to get it over with.”

“Sorry, Arthur, but duty waits for no one,” Nathan offered, clasping his shoulders one last time. 

“Of course, of course, I just...oh, Harold, I wish I could have shown you it. It was mad, of course. Completely mad. But just one moment...I really do think it was alive. Scrapped it all, but I still think about it though, still wonder what it could have been--”

“You don’t think he really built an autonomous AI, do you?” Nathan whispered just before he hailed the ship to beam them up. 

“No notes, no remaining files--but if it was merely a question of if he were able to, yes. I wonder what it was like--”

“Nothing as good as your own little project, eh Harold?” Nathan whispered with a cocky grin and a waggle of his eyebrows. 

Harold merely raised his own eyebrow in response. 

Nathan shook his head with a laugh. Shaw was staring at the wall, bored. Groves was staring at them. Harold felt a strange shiver run through him. There was no way anyone knew about the Machine, not yet, but Groves had a knack--

“Enterprise. Transporter room. Energize,” Nathan called into his communicator.

The world slipped into a cascade of sparkling light.

A moment of awareness, of standing in the transporter room almost whole before blinking out of corporeality again. Unknown time passed, and when they materialized, Chief Engineer Harold Finch was predisposed to the suspicion that something was wrong. 

Nathan was already talking, barreling forward as if a malfunctioning transporter was the norm. “That was a rough ride--” Harold reached out and touched Nathan’s arm, and paused at the bare skin under his fingertips. He glanced out the corner of his eye, and saw Nathan’s uniform had been transformed into a gold lamé vest adorned with a sash and an array of strange medals. Nathan--knowing the half-Vulcan did not engage in physical contact frivolously--halted, bringing the rest of their away team to a stop. 

“The hell?” Dr. Shaw muttered under her breath. Harold looked over at her, and blinked. 

Both Shaw’s usual short sleeve Medical scrubs and black pants were missing. She and Lieutenant Groves’ clothing had been transformed into revealing crop tops and skirts with a gold lamé sash. The effect was gaudy. 

There was a man standing next to transporter chief Szymanski. He was tall, a dark goatee making his face gaunt. His eyes were light in color, and hard. He saluted them, raising his fist to his chest, then extending it shoulder level with indifference. Behind the man, a symbol of a planet stabbed with a knife was imprinted on the wall. The image was garish. 

Harold did not know this man standing at his transporter controls.

“Status of mission, Captain?” the tall, gaunt man rasped, stepping forward. 

Nathan’s eyes flickered towards Harold briefly--he straightened his back, and moved forward, alone. 

Facing each other, the two stood eye-to-eye. Nathan settled into his facade of comfortable command, while the man stood like an unsprung wire. 

“No change,” Nathan gambled. 

The man gave no tell. “Well then,” he drawled in a low voice. 

The transporter room door opened, and a brunette woman in command gold--the same unfortunate cut as Shaw and Groves’ uniforms--stalked into the room. The tall man stepped aside, at ease but with no less dangerous an air. 

“Captain,” the woman purred, but one would be a fool to miss the stiletto knife under her tongue. “Is everything alright? There seemed to be some difficulty.”

“Rough ride,” Nathan offered.

“I don’t think you were doing your job properly, Szymanski,” the man said. His voice sounded soft and raw from a lack of use, and he stared at Szymanski with an unblinking facade. 

“Mr. Szymanski. You were instructed by Reese to compensate for the ion storm,” the woman remarked, eyes still focused on Nathan. 

“I tried, Ms. Stanton, I really--”

“Carelessness with the equipment can not be tolerated.”

“But, Ms. Stanton--” and Szymanski was stepping away, eyes wide, voice quivering. 

“Reese. His Agonizer,” the woman, Ms. Stanton ordered, never moving her head or looking away from Nathan. Nathan matched her gaze--Harold knew it was up to him to be his peripheral vision. 

The tall man--Reese--pinned Szymanski in two steps. 

“Mr. Reese, please, I really tried--” Szymanski begged.

“Your Agonizer,” Reese softly, but firmly asked for, his hand outstretched. 

Hand shaking, Szymanski pulled a small device from his belt. Reese took it, and without hesitation pressed it over Szymanski’s heart.

Harold had prepared himself for something terrible, but the screams pulled from Szymanski’s mouth as he stiffened from the shock nearly propelled Harold into action. The demand that the man stop his torture was on his tongue, fury at the casual violence stabbing hot and fiercely within him. A hand on his shoulder blade stopped him. “Harry--” Lieutenant Groves breathed, her lips not moving. 

He could feel the tendril of her warning in his mind. Whatever had happened, whatever strange world they had slipped into, to speak censure would reveal they did not belong. Without further data, any action, any word could be their doom. Still, Harold struggled to do nothing as Szymanski’s screams became hoarse. 

‘I am in control of my emotions,’ he thought as Szymanski’s legs gave out. Once he collapsed, Mr. Reese did not pursue the torture, though he seemed eager for the excuse to continue. 

“Mr. Finch, the storm has caused some minor damage in your section,” Ms. Stanton offered, and Harold turned towards her, face impassive. Ms. Stanton’s face twitched at his lack of acknowledgement--her eyes tightening, the hint of a sneer curling the corner of her mouth. 

“Mr. Finch,” Szymanski said--he had staggered back to his feet, and was leaning heavily on the transporter control panel. 

“Yes, Mr. Szymanski?” Harold calmly asked, turning away from Ms. Stanton. 

“The power beam jumped for a moment, sir, as you were about to materialise. I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

“Due to your error, Mr. Szymanski?” Mr. Reese cut in. He had yet to raise his voice, but Harold had never met a man who could sound so calm and polite, yet threatening.

“Possibly a result of the severe storm,” Harold interrupted, and Szymanski visibly swallowed in relief when Mr. Reese turned his dagger focus on Harold instead. Harold held his gaze for but a moment, and turned towards Nathan. “Captain, do you feel any abnormal effects?”

Nathan picked up his cue. “Yes. Dr. Shaw, you'd better look us over,” he suggested, nodding towards Shaw. 

Shaw had been standing by, her posture indolent while her dark eyes had been intense. She gave a small nod. 

“Mr. Szymanski, please have the data from the power surge forwarded to me,” Harold ordered as they made their way to the door. “And I will personally check the transporter circuits.”

“Yes sir, of course,” Szymanski babbled. Harold’s eye drifted back toward Mr. Reese’s inscrutable face--and the slight cock of his head as he stared back at Harold.

The door closed, and Harold turned to catch up with the others, pushing aside his alarm. He needed access to the computer, needed to figure out what had happened. 

Harold has always thought it illogical that humans would speak about having difficulty telling the difference between a dream and reality. As they made their way to the medical bay, Harold supposed that he finally understood. Crew paused as they passed them, offering the one-handed salute towards Nathan that brought early 20th century Terran history to Harold’s mind. It was rattling Nathan, but he kept pushing forward, offering only a nod as they continued. 

More disconcerting to Harold were the people who saluted Nathan while looking at him.

By the time they reached Shaw’s office in the medical bay and the door closed behind them, Harold felt himself releasing a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding. There was a moment of silence, before--

“Seriously, what the hell?” Shaw growled, her hands clenched into fists.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Yes Harold is the half-Vulcan but Reese is the Spock I promise it made sense in my head.  
> -I drank too much Prosecco and cackled at FantasyPrincess for too long about Nathan in Kirk's gold lamé vest.  
> -Harold is my sweet half-Vulcan but he got the genetic crapshoot of viability because I literally can not imagine a eyeglassless Harold and if Kirk can have a bullshit need of glasses he can too WHEE  
> 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Seriously, what the hell?” Shaw growled, her hands clenched into fists.

“It’s a good look for you,” Groves offered, her head cocked as she gave Shaw a slow look up and down. 

“Shut up,” Shaw growled as she looked around the space--used beakers and data cards littered the desk and counters. “And what the hell did they do to my office? This place is a mess--”

“Doctor, your office is hardly the paragon of organization,” Groves quipped. 

“I have a system,” Shaw snapped. She started stacking some data cards, but paused. She touched the corner of one of the counters. “That’s weird,” she muttered. “I spilled acid there a year ago. The spot is still there.”

“So this is the Enterprise,” Nathan said, looking around. “Just not our Enterprise. Harold, is that possible?”

“There are drugs that would cause a delusion like this. Your buddy Claypool could have slipped us something in our food or drink. Just saying,” Shaw shrugged at Harold’s affronted stare. 

“He was the one going on about your wild Academy days, Harry,” Groves helpfully added. 

“Even at the Academy that was never Arthur’s style. He was a trickster, but--” Nathan said, touching the edge of the table, “this is real.” 

“Did any of you feel dizzy when we were in the transporter beam?” Harold asked. 

Groves and Nathan nodded. “The transporter dematerialised us, you don’t feel dizzy every time?” Shaw drawled. Harold turned, raising his eyebrow at her. Shaw frowned. “Sure, yea, it was a weird beam up.”

“It happened twice,” Harold said, closing his eyes to try and retrace the sensation, the gray border between existing as matter and pure energy. “We appeared in our own transporter chamber for just a moment, but then faded...and when we finally materialised, we were here. The surge of power Szymanski mentioned, the ion storm may have affected the transporter lock, causing us to materialize somewhere else.”

“A parallel universe?” Nathan asked, his brow furrowed. 

“Is that so impossible?” Harold replied. “Not our universe, not our ship, but a parallel one with almost everything duplicated. There must be versions of us in this world, or I fear our initial meeting with Mr. Reese and Ms. Stanton would have been far less favorable.”

“If you call that favorable, I’ll start thinking you’re secretly an optimist, Harold,” Nathan muttered.

“If they had reason to suspect we are not the people they think we are, they did nothing. And now we have time to determine what kind of people we are here, and play our parts accordingly. So yes, Nathan, I consider that a boon.” 

“Do you think our counterparts were transporting at the same time? Similar storms in both universes disrupting the transport, and now we’ve been exchanged?” Groves posited. 

“If they’re on our Enterprise and not-me messes up my med bay I’ll kill her,” Shaw threatened. 

“The idea of anyone from this place in command of our ship is--well, it certainly doesn’t feel good,” Nathan shook his head. “Harold, we have to figure out how we can get back.”

The unspoken _if_ hung in the air. 

“Well, they’ll use the computer, and we’ll have to as well,” Harold muttered as he sat at Shaw’s terminal. He opened his mouth to authorize his log in, but paused. Nathan had always teased that Harold was paranoid, but he could not shake the air of violence and suspicion that seemed to haunt the ship like a miasma. 

“It’s possible they are monitoring communications,” Groves pointed out, saying aloud what had just occurred to Harold.

“We will have to confirm if there is any manner of surveillance, and who has access to that,” Harold agreed. “We can’t risk anyone questioning our actions, and stopping us. Once we know who is watching, we can keep them in the dark. Lieutenant Groves--”

“I hope I’m head of communications in this world as well or accessing my post is going to be very awkward,” she said. Her tone was light, but there was steel behind it.

“Lieutenant, I wouldn't ask this of you if we had another option,” Harold said. 

“Harry, I’m just doing my job,” she said with her usual flippant air. 

“I’ll be right there with you, Groves,” Nathan reassured her. “If I can’t keep attention off of you and towards the center ring, then I’m not doing my job.”

“Please don’t do anything...flashy,” Harold winced. 

“Ye of little faith,” Nathan said, clapping Harold’s shoulder. 

“The intercoms may be monitored, use your communicators for private messages. Subfrequency and scramble,” Groves instructed. 

“I have access to personnel files,” Shaw pointed out. “Won’t be suspicious if I access them. That should help us find out exactly who we are.” 

“I’ll need to address the damages to the ship, but once I have engineering started on repairs, I’ll run diagnostics on the power surge read-outs and try to reverse-engineer a way home,” Harold declared.

“Well then. Once more into the breach?” Nathan offered, throwing his hands open. “Be careful, everyone. And let’s get home.”


	3. Chapter 3

The damage from the ion storm was more extensive than Harold anticipated. Whatever her role on this ship was, Ms. Stanton was no engineer. Harold had intended to be calm, dividing up the work as quickly as possible as he familiarized himself with the slight variation in instrumentation. The faster he accomplished that, the sooner he could focus on the greater problem at hand. But the hesitation of his crew to take any initiative without his explicit orders frayed on his last nerve.  

“For goodness sakes, must I hold your hands!” he finally cried. “This ship needs to be fixed, so fix it!”

This startled the crew into action, and the way they looked at him--hurried steps and furtive glances--made his skin crawl. One ensign he didn’t recognize fumbled a tool, the noise echoing through the cavernous room. When he turned around to ask if she was alright or if she needed assistance, she merely dropped her head, her body trembling. The inquiry died on his lips. Seeing she was unharmed, he tried to ignore her instead. It was forty-five whole seconds before she dared look up and finally, back away.

Harold had counted every second.

He focused on his terminal instead, both overseeing the repairs, reviewing the data from the storm, and adding a scanning program to his tricorder to alert him to any physical monitoring devices simultaneously. There was no excuse for shoddy work, regardless of the...situation.

The program picked up two physical surveillance devices in the engine room, but they were nowhere near his terminal. Had his counterpart found and disposed of them? Or had no one risked it out of respect...or fear?

His communicator chirped. He looked around the engine room--his crew were far enough away he felt secure taking the hail. He flipped the communicator open.

“Finch,” he answered, keeping his face carefully neutral.

_“Harry, I’ve got some interesting news for you.”_

“Lieutenant Groves. What have you found?” he prompted, his voice sotto.

‘ _There are several parties monitoring computer access and there’s a surveillance network, but only one person has hacked personal logs. You’ve got quite the firewall around yours by the way, I haven’t been able to access them, though I certainly have been trying. Or rather, my counterpart has been.’_

The idea of Lieutenant Groves pointing her stunning intellect against him in any universe--

Well, he had rather not contemplate it. “To the point, Lieutenant.”

 _‘The point is I don’t think you trust me very much.’_ Groves continued, ‘ _Not that I appear to be very trustworthy. I’ve been selling intel to the highest bidders.’_

“You are an ambitious woman, Lieutenant,” Harold offered.

_‘You and the Captain are the only people I haven’t been able to force access to. Your firewalls are insultingly obvious, but impervious. You’ve been taunting me. You know they can’t be broken, and you want anyone who tries it to know.’_

“So our terminals are secure. That’s a relief,” Harold said.

_‘Mine is the most invasive. But there are two other monitoring programs--one I traced back to Carter, and one to Stanton.’_

“Lieutenant Carter?” Harold replied, finding himself honestly surprised.

_‘It’s a brave new world, Harry. She’s working for someone, I just haven’t been able to uncover who. And she’s a real piece of work, let me tell you. I think she suspects me. That or she expects something from me.’_

“Do be careful, Lieutenant,” Harry fervently said. “If you can, meet me in my quarters.  We need to review our findings, and discuss a solution to our particular problem.”

‘ _Carter is head of security, and her people have already stopped me twice. I had trouble even getting to the communications servers. Me. The head of communications.’_ Harold could hear the frustration in her voice. _‘Once I told them you had sent me, though, they got out of my way.’_

That sounded ominous to Harold. “I appreciate the difficulty, if you cannot find a way without raising suspicion--”

_‘If anyone stops me I’ll just tell them we’re having a torrid affair and my delay will be most displeasing to you. That should get them off my back.’_

“Lieutenant!”

‘ _I’m serious, Harry. Your name puts the fear of God into people around here. It’s been very handy so far. ’_

Harold had nothing to say to that. “I’ll meet you there in ten minutes,” he sighed instead.

 _‘In the middle of Beta shift. Harry what will people say?’_ Groves teased.

Harold merely ended the comm.

He hesitated a moment, but the repairs were finally coming along. If he was going to continue on the solution of their return he needed privacy to access the ship’s computer. Looking around the room one last time with a cold eye, he left the engine room without a word.

No one asked him where he was going.

The corridors leading from the engine room to the turbolift were quiet, and nearly empty. Harold hailed Dr. Shaw.

 _‘Hey Finch.’_ Her voice sounds more pinched than normal.

“Are you scheduled for Beta? We are meeting in my Quarters,” Harold told her. When she didn’t respond right away, Harold felt the beginning of panic rise within him. He focused on his breathing, waiting for her response. Still nothing.

“Dr. Shaw?”

 _‘Damnit it, either do your job or get the fuck out of my med bay or so help me you’ll discover new and intimate uses for scalpels--sorry. This place is a shit-show,’_ she growled, falling back on her favorite 21st century Terran obscenities. _‘Yea I’m scheduled, but I can play hooky. And I hope this bitch gets written up for it.’_

Harold opened his mouth to say something else, but merely sighed, and ended the call.

His communicator chirped once more. Harold was nearly at the turbolift.

 _‘So, Stanton,’_ Nathan said once they confirmed they were clear to talk. ‘ _I’m pretty sure I’ve been. That in this universe she and I...’_

“Nathan--I hope you are not suggesting that you are engaged in a relationship with Ms. Stanton,” Harold said, genuinely appalled.

 _‘The other me is!’_ he protested. _‘It certainly looks like he is. She’s certainly acting like we are. I can’t decided if he’s arrogant enough to think she wouldn’t kill him, or if he’s stupid enough not to realize she’s working him over for intel.’_

“It could be both,” Harold offered. “He might be foolish enough to think he’s playing her--”

_‘Your confidence in me is very heartening. Truly. God, I turn my back on her and I can feel the knife between my ribs. I had to feign a headache to get her out of my quarters. Tell me you can get us home, Harold.’_

“I’m working on it.” The turbolift doors opened. Harold entered, and called for his deck.

_‘Another thing--I’ve been going through my personal logs. People rise in rank through assassination here.’_

Harold cocked his head in surprise. “What an entirely illogical system for advancement,” he said. He could feel his brow furrow in distaste. He felt almost personally offended.  

_“Just watch your step, Harold.’_

“You should watch yours,” Harold retorted. “I may be the Chief Engineer but as Captain you--”

 _‘Not so sure about that, old friend,’_ Nathan cut in. Harold could hear the clipped anger under the amusement in his voice. _‘Remember that old chestnut from our Academy days? That I was just some drunken, womanizing idiot who was using you to get ahead?’_

That rumor had personally offended Harold then for Nathan’s sake. He found the memory still vexed him.

_‘My quarters are a mess, my personal logs are barely coherent, and my reports--it’s buried pretty well but I’d know your touch anywhere. I have the rank but you’ve been doing the work. And worse, I’m pretty sure Stanton knows it.’_

Harold pushed his glasses up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “No wonder--” he sighed. “The reactions of my crew make sense now. They are terrified of me. And Groves has been using my name to get around security.”

 _‘Seems they know which side of their bread is buttered,’_ Nathan sighed.

Harold paused. “I fail to see what foodstuffs have to do with the situation at hand.”

Nathan gave a short burst of a laugh. _“Keep me updated. Take care, Harold. Ingram out.’_

Harold pocketed his communicator. Just two standard hours before they had been saying goodbye to Arthur. The turbolift doors opened, and Harold made his way to his Quarters, lost in thought. He felt the air shift behind him--paranoid, he ducked.

The blow hit him in the shoulder instead of the head. Pain burst through his arm and neck as he staggered against the wall.

“You’ve got some reflexes on ya there, Pointy Ears.”

The voice and build was the same, but the broad smile on Lieutenant Fusco’s face was marred by a jagged scar, and twisted also by the sadistic satisfaction in his eyes. The pain was more a surprise than disorienting, but not as terrible as the vertigo-like sensation of seeing the casual malice on the Lieutenant’s face.

Fusco hung the club on his belt, and raised a phaser. “Not so fast. I know better than to let a Vulcan get too close, even a mutt like you,” Fusco said, and Harold stepped back. The phaser’s design was different, but Harold had no doubt, like everything else in this world, the results would be...unpleasant.

“I fail to see what the ship’s navigator would hope to gain by assaulting me,” Harold began, the pain still blooming red hot. He kept his face neutral, even as his fingers twitched.

Mutt. He could feel the sharpness of his limitations in that one word. The unusual, tiny difficulties of his hybrid birth openly mocked. Neither human, nor Vulcan, he'd often been underestimated by one, and scorned by the other. He had learned very quickly how to use that to his advantage, and now coldly calculated the percentages of fighting back.

Of course, if he'd only been more aware of his surroundings he might have sidestepped Fusco, even caught him off guard, and subdued him with the neck pinch his mother had made sure he mastered. But like his allergy to all corrective treatments had left him with the rare need of glasses, he lacked the superior strength of a true Vulcan--overcoming Fusco by brute force had never been an option. No, that window was long past.

Harold let all those emotions slide away with the pain, and he began centering his thoughts.

Fusco stuck his thumbs in his gold belt--he was enjoying this moment. Harold coolly recognized Fusco’s smugness for the luck it was. If Fusco just wanted him dead, he wouldn’t look so pleased. Remembering Nathan’s discovery, he took the chance. “You are taking quite the risk, Lieutenant,” he continued, feeling his face and voice slip into the old comfort of flat detachment. “The Empire might encourage such ambition, but you will find you’ve made a fatal miscalculation.”

Fusco hesitated a moment, and Harold despaired once more at what manner of man he was on this ship, in this world. Fusco recovered. “I’m not here for a promotion, Glasses, I’m fine just where I am. But HR wants dibs on what you pulled out of that quack’s lab. So how about we do this the easy way, and I don’t have to make it look like you took a bad slip in one of the jefferies tubes.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Harold said, perfectly honest.

“You know, I was hoping we’d have to do this the ha--”

But Fusco didn’t finish his cliché. He stiffened, his face contorting in pain.  With a gurgle, he collapsed, the phaser clattering as it hit the ground.

Harold looked up, and down the hallway stood Mr. Reese from the transporter room, phaser in hand. He approached Harold, phaser still held casually at hip level. Fusco had been dangerous, but still all bluster and blow. Mr. Reese moved with a quiet intensity that promised the sudden and certain violence of a snake’s strike.

“I told you you needed better security, Finch _,_ ” Mr. Reese said in his low, raspy voice. “You’ll never make it to captain if you aren’t more careful.”

Harold straightened up. He was flying without a map, trying to calculate a response without any data. “Who says I want to be captain, Mr. Reese?” Harold said, his voice and face neutral.

Mr. Reese smiled. It was closed-lip smile, and while it affected his gaunt cheeks and brow, it did not reach his eyes. “A little birdie,” he said.

Harold had the alarming thought that perhaps Mr. Reese worked for _him._

Mr. Reese kicked Fusco’s prone form. Fusco, still out cold, gave no response. “I’ll take care of this,” he said, securing his phaser on his belt. “Carter’s not going to be happy her dog got caught though.”

“Leave Carter to me,” Harold bluffed.

Fusco was beginning to stir. Mr. Reese pulled him up, leaning him against the wall with a rough push. Fusco was incoherent, and could barely keep his feet under him.

“What are you going to do with him?” Harold asked, his voice bland although the sight was distressing. Even with the scar, the man looked like his version of Lieutenant Fusco; a good, loyal officer.

“What do you want me to do with him?” Mr. Reese asked, looking back at Harold.

Again, Harold stood at the crossroads of the unknown. Harold suspected precious little mercy in this world. Dare he reveal himself by showing some?

“Nothing permanent, Mr. Reese. He may prove useful against HR,” Harold decided, and hoped his words weren’t damning for the man. Or himself. “That will be all,” Harold said imperiously, and turned to walk away.

“What, you’re not going to invite me back once I take care of this?” And Mr. Reese was _teasing_ him. Harold froze, and stiffly looked over his shoulder.

“If I have need of you, Mr. Reese,” he said after a beat, “you’ll know.”

Harold turned and walked away before Mr. Reese could respond. Had he lingered, he might have seen the suspicion dawn on Mr. Reese's face, or even heard the "fascinating" he muttered before he hauled Fusco back to his feet, and marched him away.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carter makes a deal with the devil she doesn't know, and Harold makes a grave error.

 

Lieutenant Jocelyn Carter had faced bad odds before. In her years of service, she had been marooned, drugged, kidnapped, and nearly frozen to death. She had faced down renegade officers, Romulans and Klingons while in command of the helm--and yet none of those seemed as insurmountable as the task at hand.

“Acting Captain’s Log, Stardate--”

“Hey, Carter, this a bad time?”

Carter cancelled the log with a sigh and looked at Fusco. She’d already deleted four. “Please tell me someone of the hundreds of scientists on board have figured out what happened to them,” she begged him. “Starfleet keeps demanding answers and I’m running out of ways of saying ‘half of our senior staff including the captain have gone crazy in a freak transporter accident and we’d like to figure out what happened before we warp out please stand by’.”

“Yea, well the scientists are running out of ways of saying ‘come back when we’ve got something’,” Fusco shot back. His face softened, and he shrugged, sitting across from Carter at the table. “Here’s what they got so far,” he offered, passing her a stack of data cards. “Maybe you and me can catch something they overlooked.”

Carter jumped on them, scooping them up to feed into her computer console. “How’s Szymanski?” she asked, looking up from the files for a moment.

“Cole says Shaw and Groves could have done a real number on him. He’s lucky he was still alive by the time security subdued them. Honestly, I think the two of them weren’t expecting phasers set on stun,” he said, picking up a data card. “Maybe it’s like that time with the unicorn dog?”

“Alfa 177 canine,” Carter corrected him, absently while she scrolled through the data.  

“It was a dog with a horn. It was a unicorn dog,” Fusco insisted.

A short laugh escaped Carter’s mouth. She shook her head and looked at Fusco. “You know, if I wasn’t so worried about the four of them, I’d say this was just another day in Starfleet.”

Fusco huffed, and looked back at his console.

Carter worked her way through the data. “The ion storm caused the problem, that’s obvious. But what it did, I just--”

“You know, they tell us Starfleet is made of the best and brightest in the Alpha Quadrant. But put Glasses and Cuckoo in the room and they make everyone else look two tests away from flunking out of kindergarden.”

“Well, Finch and Groves aren’t here,” Carter said absently, picking up the next data card.

“I mean. Technically…”

Carter’s hand paused over the computer terminal. “Fusco, no. No way.”

“They’re still the best we’ve got.”

“They--they aren’t themselves! Groves and Shaw put a man in the med bay!”

“Finch seems reasonable.”

She stared at him, eyebrow raised.

“Ok, not reasonable, but pretty sure he’s not blotto like the Captain, and not going to put a knife in us like Groves or Shaw.”

Carter opened her mouth to say no again, but--

“This isn’t even the worst idea we’ve ever had,” she admitted. She pressed the intercom. “Carter to security. Send a team to the brig and transport Lieutenant Commander Finch to the briefing room. You are aware of the situation--take all necessary precautions.” 

‘ _Talk about a surreal thing to say_ ,’ she thought as she ended the call. “Fusco, you should get back to the helm, I’ll handle this.”

“No way,” Fusco protested.

“It was your idea!” Carter pointed out.

“Look, just cause I suggested it doesn’t mean I like it!  I’m not saying you can’t handle him--”

“Fusco. I need you at the helm,” she repeated, and there was no room in her tone for argument. He shifted in his seat, a storm cloud on his face.

People who didn’t know better might look at Fusco and sneer. A fool might assume that his age and rank meant he was someone to dismiss. What he was was Starfleet’s best navigator, and--if the ensigns didn’t think you could overhear them--the best support from a senior officer a crew member could ask for. He didn’t coddle, but he’d never abandon you.

Carter knew that better than most. For the past year he’d been her right hand man at the helm--literally. And they had more in common than just their positions on the bridge. It was hard being a parent lightyears away from your kid.

Carter leaned in, resting her hand on his forearm. She waited until he looked her in the eye, and gave his arm a gentle squeeze. “I know you got my back, Fusco, but let security do it’s job,” she said.  

It took a moment, but Fusco gave a curt nod, and left the briefing room.

Carter sat at the console and breathed deeply. She rolled her shoulders back, knowing exactly what needed to be done, even if she was flying blind to do so.

Nothing in her life had ever been well planned out, so this should be a walk in the park.

While some cadets fit right into their careers, Joss had never been one to settle. She’d started in Astrophysics, but ended up with concentrations in law and psychology as well; even dabbled in botany for a hobby.

She’d married Paul while stationed on a research outpost, became a mother, and divorced all in the span of a few years. Space...had not been good for Paul.

She stayed grounded on a colony while Taylor was still young, but the years went by and she ached for more. Her prayers were answered when she got assigned to the five year mission aboard the USS Enterprise as a science officer. Paul was in therapy, and had accepted a position back on Earth only a few months before. She’d taken Taylor to Earth to see his father, prepared to accept it might not work out--but Paul proved himself a good dad. A month later, she shipped out.

She couldn’t deny it ate at her. There were days, months, where she felt torn between the son she barely saw, and the work she excelled at. Through it all, she knew she was a hell of an officer, but hoped she was a good mother. Keeping to their communications schedule religiously, she marveled at how well-adjusted Taylor seemed to be, regardless of her physical absence. Taylor was talking about trying for the Academy now, which was complicated all by itself, but it made her proud.

Sometimes, during Gamma shift when the majority of the ship was asleep, she wondered what life could have been like if her and Paul had worked it out. It made her sad. Even a little jealous.

It was an away mission gone wrong that changed her life again. The sort of ‘gone wrong’ that people didn’t return from. Instead, she’d gotten the entire team back to the ship alive. When Captain Ingram officially handed her a medal from Starfleet and his own personal commendation, he’s shook her hand in both of his. “Command could use a woman like you, Carter,” was all he said.

She was still sitting when security brought him to the briefing room. Two security officers flanked him, keeping out of arm’s reach but with their phasers trained on Finch.

She leaned back as he looked around, her arm resting on the conference table. She wanted to announce without words that she was in charge of this conversation. Security took their positions at the door, phasers placed back on their belts.

  
Carter gave a cool, non-committal smile while she watched him. 

It was easy to forget sometimes that Finch was half-human until you met full Vulcans. He might be stiff and proper, but one could still coax emotion from him. Finch was a private person, but he took open pleasure in things--a piece of art, or witty phrase, a new discovery.

This Finch slide into the seat in front of her. He had a face like stone, and though he sat completely still, that stillness lacked any of the patience the man she knew possessed. He seemed a man on edge, with cold, hard sharpness like a winter gale.

She let the moment stretch, waiting to see what he would do. What he would say.

“I’m tired of having my time wasted, Lieutenant,” he finally sneered. “Are you going to let me access the ship’s computer to solve our little problem, or are you going to cause a scene?”

“And what exactly is our little problem, Mr. Finch?” she asked, twisting a bit of sweetness at him. “Tell me, and I’ll decide what scene I’m going to make.”

“Transference between parallel dimensions is my working theory, but without access to a computer I can only hypothesize.”  

“Parallel dimensions? That’s going to make a lot of our quantum physicists very excited if that’s the case. Unless it’s some sort of sabotage. Some kind of mind control? That’s happened before.”

Finch stood up, and resting his closed fists on the table, leaned forward.

“This is a kinder, gentler universe, Lieutenant, and I’m sure I will do just fine in it. But let me assure you that if your crewmates are anything like this universe, they won’t have long. The Empire does not have patience for...softness.”

The way Finch spit the word out sent an electric current down her spine. Carter narrowed her eyes, but after another moment of silence, stood up and walked around the conference table, data cards in hand. She placed them at the computer console closest to Finch.

“Don’t make me regret this,” she warned him as he moved to pick them up. He paused, his jaw clenching. She’d seen Finch exasperated, worried, insulted, annoyed. She’d never seen such rage bubbling just beneath his surface.

Finch ordered the computer to create a program to sort through the data--Carter leaned against the conference table, watching his progress over his shoulders. She waited, allowing the silence to stretch between then ten minutes, twenty minutes, an hour until--

“I require access to the warp engines,” Finch declared, standing up. It was not a request.

“How about you tell me why first,” Carter shot back.

“To recreate the power surge caused by the ion storm. Of course, that will be the easy part.”

“What’s the hard part?” she asked, not moving.

His face twisted in open disgust. “I am not required to explain myself to a subordinate--”

“If you want to mess around the warp engines you damn well will explain yourself, _Mister,_ ” she cut him off. “I am acting Captain, and you will lay out your theory and your proposed procedure--”

“What does a helmsman _presume_ to understand--”

“--And THEN,” she continued, raising her voice, “if I feel the science holds up, then we will escort you to the warp engines.”

“On my ship,” and the emphasis on ‘my’ was a tell that rang as loud and clear as a bell, “my orders are obeyed--”

“On this ship we double check our numbers, and hold people accountable for their actions.”

“It is beyond your computational ability,” he sneered.

“I’m good at math.”

He shoved the data card back in the console, and stepped away from it. She slide into the seat, and pulled up the equations to review.

“Time is ticking for your colleagues, Lieutenant, but please, risk their lives,” and he was building himself into a righteous fury.

“Go on ranting if it makes you feel better, I can keep calculating even when the inertial dampers take a hit,” she shrugged. The math was checking out.

“Not only must we attempt the transference at the same time, but we have to be within the same relative distance, which is only likely as long as we both remain in orbit around this planet within our respective universes! If one of us leaves, the transfer can’t happen even if we successful tie the power increase to the transporter! And _then,_ good luck crossing paths with the ISS Enterprise again in your lifetime! Chasing after a ghost you can’t see, in a universe that is infinitely vast. Of course, it is highly _probable_ that your colleagues will be dead in the next seven hours regardless!”

“Why would that be?” she demanded, not looking up from the equations.

“Because that is when Mr. Reese and Ms. Stanton have been instructed to take control of the ship by any means necessary if we haven’t handed over our Prize.”

Carter didn’t know those names, but the wrongness still hit the back of her neck like a red alert. She looked up now, and Finch was smiling, thin and cruel like he had won.

“What prize?” she asked, her voice somehow still level.

“The key to controlling the Empire,” he said, and he was _gloating_. “The Tantalus Field.”

 

~*~

 

Dr. Shaw was no engineer, and reminded Harold of that fact repeatedly.

“This is a very delicate operation, Doctor,” Finch muttered as he opened the panel.

“Just don’t try to ask for any of these tools by their names,” she growled. “Go for basic descriptions or we’ll be here all day.”

_‘I’ve disabled Carter’s security board, you’ve got a ten minute window, Harry.’_

“A little more time would have been appreciated, Ms. Groves.”

_‘I’m not a miracle worker.’_

“Pretty sure that’s your line, Finch,” Shaw drawled. Harold rolled his eyes, and pointed towards the tool he needed next.

Before him lay the warp relays; the synapses of the warp drives, leading directly to a Starship’s beating heart.

And how like a heart it truly was. Nathan sometimes teased him for waxing poetic about the Enterprise, called it ‘so very un-Vulcan’ of him. But without warp power, impulse power would soon drain a Starship, bleeding it dry until one by one, monitoring and life-support systems would fail, until the ship’s computer finally gave its last, and fell silent.

He did not share his observation with Dr. Shaw.

“Nine minutes, Finch,” Shaw said.

Harold had to install the hardware to siphon the engine’s power directly to the transporter, recreating the power surge. While balancing the four of them, the power redirect had to be able to be remotely activated, and go undetected. Once they were beaming back to their universe the unavoidable drop of power as it was pulled from the engines wouldn’t matter--once the transporter was engaged, it would be too late to stop them. But the hardware installation would cause a blip now, noticeable to anyone paying attention. It was a risk they had to take.

“Four minutes, Finch,” Shaw said in her low, neutral voice.

“I am aware of the time, Doctor,” he said, perhaps a touch short with her.

 _‘Harry, Carter’s overridden my loop,’_ Groves said, and Harold’s hands froze.

“Damnit, he’s almost done,” Shaw snapped. “You have to do something, Root.”

 _‘Keep working. I have an idea,’_ Groves said, and the communicator went silent.

“I hope she is not taking an undue risk,” he worried, moving faster.

“She’ll do what she has to do,” Shaw said, her face inscrutable.

The hardware in place, Harold synched it with his Padd. The moment of truth--the slight drop in the hum of the warp core--

“It’s done,” he sighed.

Shaw gathered up the tools while he replaced the panel, and they moved in tandem away from the engine room, back to the turbolift.

Shaw pulled up her communicator the moment the turbo lift doors closed behind them. “Groves,” she said, her voice tight.

There was no response.

“Groves,” Shaw said again. Harold noticed she was holding her communicator with white knuckles. The sight surprised him like a revelation.

 _‘Well, let’s never do that again,’_ Groves sighed.

Shaw made a disgruntled noise, her grip on the communicator loosening.

“Ms. Groves!” Harold cried out, “are you alright? What happened?”

 _‘I made her an offer she felt like refusing,’_ was all she said. _‘The knife in the boot is handy though. Think we can make it standard issue once we get back home?’_

“Ms. Groves, you should return to your quarters,” Harold said. “We will attempt the transport during Gamma. We may have only one chance.”

“Let me know if you need a doctor’s note to leave the bridge,” Shaw said, her voice dry, and ended the communication.

  
The turbolift doors opened, and Shaw fell into step just behind Harold, scanning the hallways and each corner. “There’s already been one attempt on you, Finch,” she said once she noticed him staring at her.  

“I’ll be sure to stay in my quarters,” he said drolly, coming to a stop in front of his door.

Shaw’s eyes narrowed, and she touched the crook of his arm. It startled him; Shaw did not touch people outside of the needs of her profession. “You’re our only hope getting out of here. Something happens to you, we’re all stuck.” Her face twitched, like a thought she could not put into words had crossed her mind. She let go of his arm. “I’ve always wanted to burn an evil empire to the ground, but that just seems like too much work,” she said instead.

Harold opened the door to his quarters. Shaw pushed her way in first, did a quick visual sweep of the rooms, and nodded before she left without another word. Harold had often found the good Doctor’s bedside manner appalling, but that she cared was all too apparent.

Harold looked around his counterpart’s quarters. They were stark, far more Vulcan in style than his own. Nothing felt like him, nothing--

Tucked in the far edge of his desk was a book.

Harold’s quarters were filled with antique books; he took great pride in his collection, one of his more obvious indulgences. He swooped down on the small volume, desperate to know what book his counterpart kept in arm’s reach.

A cheap paperback antique; once so common in 21st century Earth, now so rare, so brittle to the touch. The _Aeneid._ A classic of violence and conflict, of conquest as a means of survival. He had appreciated the historic context of the poem when he had first read it, but the worn cover felt twisted in this world.

Harold put the book back, but could still feel it between his finger tips like a dark artifact. He looked at the personal console at the desk. He sat down, and logged in.

He had to _know._

 

_~*~_

 

The enslavement of Vulcan. The destruction of the Andorian Empire, of Tellar. The constant hunger of the Terran Empire.

His mother’s suicide. His father’s position in the Empire.

The Tantalus Field.

Just seven standard hours before they had been saying goodbye to Arthur. In this world, Arthur was dead. Murdered by Nathan; his lab, his research ransacked. Bile rose in the back of Harold’s throat at the idea of his old friend murdered by his dearest friend. Now he was trying to understand just what his counterpart had stolen from the ruined labs. In the personal logs he’d hacked, Arthur had referred to it as _The Tantalus Field._ The allusion to the old Terran myth of misguided cannibalization to appease the gods did not sit well with him.

The notes were fragmented and in code. It appeared to be some sort of surveillance program, but the terminal described in the notes was missing.

It seemed impossible that his counterpart would have gathered the notes on Arthur’s work, but not the device itself. But where could it--

Across the room there was a panel. It looked...incorrect. Harold walked over to it, and examined it closer. It seemed to serve no functional purpose; it was not a vent, or a cabinet, nor was it decorative. He explored it lightly with the pads of his fingers, and found two small indents. He pressed them.

The panel slide open, revealing a monitor and interface. Clever.

Harold closed the panel again, and returned to his console. But what did it do?

It was another twenty minutes before he found the answer he was looking for. It was a weapon. A nearly omniscient weapon, with the function to kill remotely yet intimately. Monitor a subject on the screen. When ready, a single push, and they were gone. Painlessly, with no evidence left behind.

He--his counterpart had already tested it once. He didn’t name the subject--the _person_ in his personal logs. Only that the Tantalus Field had done precisely what it had promised.

It was a fresh, sharp horror, tightening his chest like he was trapped in a vice. The moment froze, and he struggled to push past it.

_‘I am in control of my emotions--’_

His door whisked open, the soft noise propelling him to his feet. The door closed behind Mr. Reese. The silence stretched between them as they stared at each other.  

“I didn’t call for you,” Finch finally said. He found he was quite unable to move.  

“I decided to take the initiative,” Reese casually said. Locking the console with one hand to hide his notes about the Tantalus Field, Harold’s eye followed him as he walked the perimeter of the room.  “You know the Empire wants answers, Finch,” he added.

“They will have them in due time,” Harold whispered, face blank.  

“That’s not soon enough,” Mr. Reese sighed. “Stanton and I have our orders. I’d hate to double-cross her.”

“That you would be concerned about double-crossing Ms. Stanton and not the Empire is fascinating.”

“Earth is light-years away. Stanton’s just down the hall in Ingram’s quarters.”

 _Nathan_. Harold twisted towards the door, but stopped himself. Too late. He’d given too much away in that small gesture.

“Relax, Finch. Have a seat. You both still have three hours.”

Mr. Reese turned his back to Harold, punching an order in the personal replication. The panel opened--two tumblers of whiskey. Mr. Reese took the glasses, and sauntered back to Harold.

“I said have a seat, Finch. You’ve had a long day,” he purred, and handed him the whiskey.

Harold hesitated, but took the glass. Mr. Reese firmly pushed him down with his free hand into the chair, seeming to enjoy Harold’s slight look of surprise.

“See? Isn’t that better?” he said, resting his hand on the back of the chair, looming over Harold.

“You are taking considerable liberties, Mr. Reese,” Harold said. His mouth was dry.

Mr. Reese smiled. His eyes were bright. He put down his glass, and leaned in.

Having not anticipated this as a possible reality, Harold panicked. “Mr. Reese!” he squawked.

This time the smile did reach his eyes as Harold felt the sharp point of a knife placed at the beating spot of his carotid artery.

“Now, tell me,” Reese rasped in his ear, and his smile was triumphant. “Who are you, and what did you do to the Lieutenant Commander?”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Now, tell me,” Reese rasped in his ear, and his smile was triumphant. “Who are you, and what did you do to the Lieutenant Commander?”

Harold swallowed. He could feel the flutter of his pulse against the sharp edge of the knife. Mr. Reese was as tall as Nathan, but the overhead lights cast shadows over his brilliant eyes. He had been right in suspecting Mr. Reese had been flirting with him before. It’s absence replaced by a completely opposite kind of promise, one far harsher and far more permanent. Mr. Reese was careful not to touch him, but his long limbs fenced Harold in his chair.

  
Harold gripped the armrests. “I don’t expect you to believe me,” Harold began, barely moving his lips. “But I am Lieutenant Commander Finch.”

  
“Hmm. No. Still pretty sure you aren’t,” Mr Reese muttered. The teasing lilt was gone, the look in his eyes now as flat as his voice. “Is it sabotage? A spy that underwent cosmetic surgery?” Harold flinched as the knife nicked his neck. “Can’t fake green blood, but you could be a Romulan. You people have been very...unhappy since we’ve declared war on the Neutral Zone.”

“Tell me,” Harold began. Mr. Reese shifted his weight, his knee brushing Harold’s leg. The sensation made Harold shiver. “What do you know of the multiverse theory?”

His face didn’t change. “It makes the quantum physicists very excited.” 

Harold could feel the blood beading, and running down his neck. “There was an accident, with the transporter. I am Harold Finch--and not him," he breathed. “This would easily be solved by a rudimentary scan using the ship’s computer."

Mr. Reese cocked his head. “Computer--identify,” he ordered. 

“John Reese, Imperial Operative, REDACTED. REDACTED,” the harsh, masculine voice responded. “Lieutenant Commander Harold Finch, Chief Engineer of the ISS Enterprise, REDACTED--”

“You could have programmed the ship’s computer to identify you as Finch,” he interrupted.

“Be that as it may, I can assure you my only goal is to never see this ship ever again," he promised, adding under his breath, "and not because I’ve been killed.”

Mr. Reese seemed to ponder this. The seconds stretched between them, unbearably present like the pulse of his heartbeat next to the knife. 

“I’ve had run-ins with the Tal Shiar. They’re too cunning to send someone so obviously fake.”

“Excuse _you_ ,” Harold said before he could stop himself. 

“No. You’re not Finch. But you’re not a man that planned to be here.” Mr. Reese removed the edge of the blade from his skin, but still held it close to his neck. “So you and the rest of your landing party switched places with our people,” he mused, and if he did not have a knife at Harold’s neck he might have sounded cordial. “That’s inconvenient.”

  
“What gave us away?” Harold asked, wearily closing his eyes. He supposed he should be grateful that Mr. Reese was magnanimous enough to take his explanation as a possibility, but it had all just become too much.

“You did.” And Harold’s eyes flew open again, appalled. There was a brief ghost of a smile on his face again. “The Lieutenant Commander is a proud man. You didn’t demand my Agonizer when I failed to address you by your title. I made insinuations that would have gotten me thrown in the Agony Booth. I entered your quarters without your permission. And you did nothing. You didn’t even lose your temper.”

“You took quite the risk,” Harold whispered.

“It’s not a risk if you’re sure.”

“Your hypothesis was correct, but now you must see that I am useless to you,” Harold said, his voice steadier. “You know none of us can give you the answers your Empire is demanding. You must allow us to go home." He could feel a small trickle of blood soaking into his shirt collar and tried to reason. "Without the people you need, you will fail your mission. I can’t imagine that ending well for you or Ms. Stanton.” 

He didn’t know what else to say, what to do. This was what Nathan excelled at. Reading people. Reaching them with words. Harold had never felt Nathan’s comfort, his skill at diplomacy--especially when lives were on the line.

“Maybe we work something out and I keep you around,” Mr. Reese said, and he placed his knuckle under Harold’s chin as if he wanted to examine him closer. “Who needs the real thing when you can have a nice little puppet.”

“You will find very quickly I am not the asset you hope for, Mr. Reese,” Harold replied, his words sharp. “I would rather die than assist this Empire.”

The man’s detachment would have been lauded on Vulcan. “I’m a very persuasive man, Finch,” he said, his fingers curling out to wrap around Harold’s neck. Mr. Reese closed his grip just enough to threaten. 

The angle made it impossible for Harold to reach the spot between the neck and shoulder necessary to perform the Vulcan nerve pinch--and even if he had been able to reach, Mr. Reese surely would be able to block it. 

Dr. Shaw’s aggressive complaints that Harold needed to practice self-defense more was not lost on him now. 

He didn’t use the telepathy he’d inherited from his Vulcan heritage--quite the opposite. He’d spent his life suppressing it, blocking out the thoughts of others, in the same manner one might purposefully make themselves deaf. He now opened his mind to Mr. Reese’s touch in desperation. But even though he forced himself to drop his mental defenses, he could feel nothing of Reese’s mind. It was if the man had locked away all thought, all emotion; perfectly compartmentalized against a touch telepath. 

“I am...very set in my ways,” Harold said. Harold kept his, normally expressive, face very calm. Without the ability to passively tap into Reese's mind he'd probably have to -- He’d never performed a mind meld in his life, much less a forced one -- a despicable act against another mind. But what other choice did he have? If he could get his hand to Mr. Reese’s face instead, he might be able to--

The doors opened--the knife disappeared, and Mr. Reese’s hand curved around his neck, more lover’s embrace now than attempted murderer’s. Harold gave a small gasp as his own hand shot to his neck, touching the blood. 

“I’d say don’t let me interrupt,” Nathan began, a lecherous drawl in his voice. A small treacherous part of Harold thought Nathan had always been good at slipping into roles. “But you are dismissed, Mr. Reese.”

Mr. Reese was still for another second, and then he rolled away from Harold, his hand slipping away from his neck. “That’s inconvenient for the both of us,” he sighed, _sotto voce_. He turned, and saluting Nathan, left the quarters without another word.  
The door closed behind Mr. Reese; Harold took a deep breath as the silence stretched between them.

“You know, Harold,” Nathan began with the light, flippant voice he saved for truly awful times. “I don’t think he’s your type.”

“Spare me your attempts at humor,” Harold snapped, and pulled his hand away from his neck to check his fingers. 

Nathan was across the room in two steps; his fingers ghosting over Harold’s, but he didn’t actually touch him. “What’s that?” he asked, looking at the green stains.

“It’s called blood,” Harold dryly said. 

Nathan stiffened, “Harold--”

“He meant to intimidate, not to kill me,” Harold said. He searched his desk for a cloth, anything he could use to clean his neck. He heard Nathan’s communicator open. “Ingram to security--” he began, and there was fury under his voice. 

“No!” Harold said, grabbing the communicator from Nathan’s hand, snapping it shut. “He knows.”

“What?” Nathan hissed, his eyes widening.

The communicator chirped in Harold’s hand. “Cancel it, we can’t risk what this Reese will do if you make a move against him,” Harold begged.

Nathan took his communicator back. He looked at Harold, his face uneasy, but he flipped it open. 

_‘Carter to the Captain, come in, sir.’_

“Cancel that. Ingram out,” was all he said, and he tucked his communicator back in his belt. “Harold. What the hell happened?”

“We have more pressing issues,” Harold said, moving towards the bathroom. He washed the blood off his hand as he continued. “Mr. Reese informed me that he and Ms. Stanton have orders to kill us in three hours if we do not reveal what we found in Arthur’s labs.”

“I know. I was just coming here to warn you, I--” Nathan paused. “Wait. Wait he just told you his orders?”

“He deduced immediately that I am not the Finch he knows,” Harold said, cleaning his neck. He tried to wipe the blood from his shirt, but there was no helping that. He dropped the towel in frustration. “Mr. Reese is a very observant, very dangerous man. He--” Now it was Harold’s turn to pause. “Nathan, how did you find out about their orders?”

Nathan had come closer, and was leaning against the bathroom doorway, his bare arms crossed. “I’m still a Starship Captain, Harold. I know how to find and unscramble secret transmissions,” he said, rolling his eyes. 

Harold quirked his eyebrow, and pushed past Nathan, returning to his computer console.

Three hours was not much time, if they even had that--

“Harold, we have to attempt the transport now, it’s too risky to stay here any longer--”

“We can’t.” 

“I don’t know about you, Harold, but I’ve about had it with this world. You’ve already been attacked twice! I’m not going to risk the third time being the charm!” Nathan protested. 

“Waiting until Gamma shift was honestly my last resort,” Harold admitted. “I am unable to test my theory, but I created an scan that calculates the optimal field density between our two universes. It will then alert me, and then we will attempt the transference. We could try now, but it might not work. Our two ships might have to be in closer relative distance between the two universes.”

Nathan stared at him. “God, Harold,” he sighed, and started pacing. “You mean our ship and this ship have to orbit this damn planet in each universe and hope we cross paths again?”

“We have to assume that we have only one shot, and a very narrow window at that. If possible, we should try to tip the scale in our favor. You know Lieutenant Carter--our Carter--would not remove the Enterprise from orbit until we were recovered. And now we know we have only three more hours ourselves. It’s a risk, but...we should wait to see if the field density decreases, until we no longer have the luxury of time.”

“That’s usually how it works, isn’t it?” Nathan finally said. “So we just...sit and twiddle our thumbs and hope your scan gives the alert? And then if it doesn’t, then we throw all caution to the wind and hope for the best?”

“A crude summation but...yes.” 

Nathan shook his head. “I’m calling up Shaw and Groves. Once they get here, we’ll lock your quarters and wait this out--” 

“No. If something happens and they come for us--Nathan, we can’t risk--”

Nathan’s mouth pressed into a thin line--he understood exactly what Harold couldn’t bear to say. “Can’t risk being fish in barrel. If one of us is captured, the others can still get home.” 

“Precisely,” Harold said, though his heart felt numb. 

“You know,” Nathan said, and he gave a small, helpless chuckle. “Sometimes I hate it when we agree.”

“Find somewhere to wait. Preferably away from Ms. Stanton,” Harold warned.

“Don’t have to tell me twice. Everytime I see her, I hear that old rhyme… _’Will you walk into my parlor?’ said the Spider to the Fly’_.” Nathan walked back to the door, but paused, and looked back over his shoulder. “Just don’t do anything...illogical,” he warned him.

“I always act logically, Nathan,” Harold replied, his brow furrowing. 

Harold ordered a coded lock on his door once Nathan left, and turned back to his console. It was obvious that Mr. Reese had him at a disadvantage. But two could play such a game. 

A strange sense of fancy fell over him as he began his search. His mind wandered to a matching book set of a complete collection Nathan had gifted him years ago. 

“ _‘Data, data, data’_ ,” Harold absently quoted as he sorted through the information he quickly uncovered. “ _‘I can’t make bricks without clay’_.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh, I am concerned, Mr. Reese. So let me make this clear. I know everything about you, while you are forgetting that I am not the Harold Finch you know. The fact is, you know nothing about me.”

Just nine standard hours before they had been saying goodbye to Arthur. The scan had still not alerted about optimal field density, and time was running out. He could not explain what paranoia had caused him to triple check the settings on the transporter and the power redirect. What he found had made his blood run cold.  And so, he had worked furiously, the terrifying knowledge that at the moment of their escape they might be stopped compelling him to action. 

He would do what he could to make sure his crew--his friends-- were able to return. 

He tried not to dwell on his secondary objective, but the knowledge of what he was about to do, what he was about to offer haunted him.

He told himself that the nature of the Tantalus Field had left him no choice, but the choice to destroy it has been there, and he found he could not. He had grown sick to his soul as he’d uncovered more and more of the Empire’s atrocities. Even the personal history of Mr. Reese was a revelation of the callous and cruel disregard the Empire had for life. 

The singular report of Jessica Arndt’s death was particularly chilling. In a way, Harold could anticipate the elimination of 5000 colonists for sedition. But the public murder of a wife by her husband, a public official, without any arrest or even censure--

Who had she been to Mr. Reese he’d wondered as he stared at her photo. Had they been friends? Lovers? All that was apparent was that Mr. Reese maintained some manner of contact with her.  _ ‘I just...needed a friend that I could talk to,’  _ and Jessica’s voice on the personal subspace message made Harold’s heart ache.

He ripped through the code of the Tantalus Field, transforming it into the perfect trap. The warnings he’d programmed were clear. Like the Greek myths of old, he was offering a device that was deadly only if hubris played a part. 

A part of him demanded that this was not his world, asked what gave him the right. But he thought of the unnamed life lost in testing the Tantalus Field--the life his counterpart had forfeited to test the device--

And found he could live with interfering. 

Gamma shift had begun. The corridors were empty and dimmed, and Harold made his way quickly to  the observation deck, PADD in hand. Still he weighed all the possible outcomes in his mind, aware that success hinged on the strength of his offer. 

The door slid open, and Mr. Reese was already there waiting for him. He was standing by the observation window, his arm thrown up to lean against the frame while he gazed at the flight deck below. The cool green-hued lights from below cast his face it in sharp relief. 

“I was a little surprised you were so eager to see me again, Finch,” he said blandly, not looking up. 

“I found the tracer that was placed on the transporter controls. The power disruptor was crude, but would have effectively kept us here.”

Mr. Reese stood up to his full height, his arm falling back to his side. “You aren’t him, but you still have access to his personal logs. I’m going to make this easy for you, Finch. You give me what the Empire wants, and you all get to go home.”

“Yes. I do have access to his files. And in the last hour, I took the liberty of familiarizing myself with this world. For a paranoid government obsessed with maintaining control through force and intimidation, their encryption could use some remedial adjustments.”

“Time’s wasting, Finch. You should be more concerned about what happens to your friends if you can’t get home.”

“Oh, I am concerned, Mr. Reese. So let me make this clear. I know everything about you, while you are forgetting that I am not the Harold Finch you know. The fact is,  _ you know nothing about me. _ ”

Mr. Reese smiled at this; sardonic, thin-lipped, but bright. “That’s more like it,” he said. “For a moment, I was worried I was going to have to do something terrible to a good man. But you do have a ruthless streak in you, don’t you?”

“The Tantalus Field,” Harold pushed on, ignoring Mr. Reese’s attempt to get a rise from him. “Do as I say, and I’ll leave you the key to it,” he said, raising the PADD. “If I’m feeling magnanimous.”

“How about you just hand it over now?” Mr. Reese said. 

Harold took a step, two steps back as Mr. Reese drew closer. “Do you really think it’s just a matter of taking this PADD from my hands?” Harold retorted. “Do you really think you’ll be able to intimidate it, torture it out of me? If I am trapped here, I’m dead anyway. We’re all dead.”

“Don’t see a reason to ruin someone else’s day for it though,” Mr. Reese shrugged. “How do I know you’ll actually leave it so I can find it once you’re gone?”

“You’re just going to have to trust me, Mr. Reese,” Harold said. 

“You’re going to have to do better than that,” Mr. Reese sighed.

The frustration within him finally boiled over.  “The worst part is you have no idea what it is you would willingly hand over!” Harold cried, his chest heaving. Mr. Reese was close enough by now that Harold had to crane his neck to look at the man.  

“One of the first thing Stanton ever told me was we don’t question the orders. Intel's always right.”

“Oh, good, that sounds so much better than due process,” and Harold could not fight the sneer from his voice. “Your government cannibalizes other worlds, is only able to maintain it’s power through constant struggle,” Harold emphasised. “Talos IV, the Gorlan uprising, Vega IX--”

“They were traitors to the Empire. Rebels,” Mr. Reese said. There was that curiously bland note in his voice. “Our intelligence tells us when there is a risk to the Empire. A risk like Harold Finch.  Oh, they’ve suspected his Vulcan sympathies against Terra for a very long time, but he’s always been too careful. Withholding a vital weapon that could be used for defense however, that’s treason. And the Empire must always endure.”

“Endure?” Harold whispered, and ice cold fury passed through his veins. “What is there worth enduring? I submit that your Empire cannot endure! That through the illogical waste of potential, of resources, of time, of LIVES, it will collapse upon itself. When a high ranking official kills his wife and he isn’t even  _ arrested _ ? When that is seen as an  _ indiscretion _ , not a crime? Your own friend, Mr. Reese! Jessica Arndt murdered in broad daylight--”

“What?” 

It was the emotion behind the word that froze Harold in his tirade. He looked up.

“What did you say?” he repeated, and there was no artifice in the pain that was etched deep into his gaunt face. It was like John Reese had been cracked in two, and what escaped his face was almost too unbearable to look at. He was gutted, flayed raw in the blink of an eye.

“...you didn’t know,” Harold realized, stilled by a sudden, overwhelming current of pity.

Mr. Reese swayed as if physically struck. “I told her--I told her--” but he couldn’t get the words out. 

“Show me,” Mr. Reese said, his harsh voice soft from the pain.

“The report can be accessed by the ship’s computer,” Finch began, unsure of himself. It almost felt like the floor beneath his feet was less corporeal than it had been only a moment before. 

Mr. Reese shook his head. “Just do it. Just show me what you found,” he rasped. 

“...Pardon?” was all Harold could think to respond with. 

“Go on,” Mr. Reese said, and his hands shot out, grabbing Harold’s wrists he dropped the PADD.  There would be bruises. “You do it all the time.”

Harold understood then, and recoiled--but Mr. Reese held him fast. “You  _ want  _ me to  _ meld _ with you?” he breathed.

Mr. Reese didn’t have to nod or speak--his hard consent was written all over his face. Harold opened his mouth to protest, to swear that he would  _ never _ \--

_ ‘But you were going to,’  _ he thought.  _ ‘If it hadn’t been for Nathan...but you had already decided you had no other choice.’ _

The hypocrisy--how quickly he had decided to do the one thing he had always thought too immoral, too grotesque, and just to save himself. 

“I’m a very private person,” he weakly said instead. 

“ _ Please _ .” Mr. Reese was  _ begging. _

Harold understood the technique while always appreciating the dangers. An improper meld could hurt both parties, damage the brain irreparably, reveal far far more about a soul than a heart could bear. In the hands of one inexperienced or uncaring, it could be unconsciously intimate. 

And yet--

“If you insist,” Harold said blankly, and he reached up to carefully touch the meld points on Mr. Reese’s face. He calmed his mind, and opened his thoughts.

The cool sensation of being dragged down overwhelmed him, disoriented him. He tried to stay tethered to the information Mr. Reese had begged for and only that. But he could not tune out the flashes of truth emblazoned within his mind’s eye. This time, there were no walls--everything that was John Reese was laid bare before Harold’s mind, dark and desperate. 

_ \-- _ _ supposed to be safe, only thing he could give her was a safe world--recruited from the barracks they’d seen something--people like him they had to fight out here on the edge of space people like him kept people like Jessica safe--soft, beautiful humans like her safe tucked deep in the Empire back on Earth like a precious jewel--left her on Earth didn’t ask her to wait didn’t dare she married a top Imperial official--she was supposed to be safe--The edge of space was constant danger--any chance that their enemies could carve back pieces of the Terran Empire was a risk that they might cut a path straight back to Earth to Jessica his Jessica-- _

Harold finally broke the connection, returning to himself. The other man staggered back, and his long legs buckled. He fell like a heap onto the ground, and Harold numbly agreed that seemed a capital idea.

The pain of bereavement lingered under his skin like a hair shirt. “I’m sorry,” was all he could say once the storm passed. 

“You really aren’t from around here,” Mr. Reese--John--muttered, his energy completely spent. A strange noise escaped his mouth. Another. And another. 

“Are you--laughing?” Harold asked, too weary to drudge up proper alarm. 

“The way you acted--so affronted. I thought you were from some perfect world. But you’re not.”

Harold felt exposed like a stripped wire, and found he couldn’t quite care.  “Yes, in my world there is conflict,” he said, backing away, leaning his back against the wall. It was easy, so easy to slide down the wall until he too was sitting on the floor. He sighed, and closed his eyes. “With the Klingons, and the Romulans, and many more. There is still death, but it is seen as a tragic failure instead of a necessity of survival. I believe there will be peace between the us and them, one day. Perhaps not in my lifetime, but I have found through the hundreds of new civilizations I have had the privilege to know, there has been nothing that could not be resolved with empathy. With diplomacy. With respect.” 

“That’s a nice idea,” John replied, too numb to be sarcastic.

Harold opened his eyes, and sniffed. “It’s too much hard work to be just a dream,” Harold said, and John gave another hard laugh. 

Like a wisp of smoke, a truth nagged at Harold. “If you go after him, they’ll kill you,” he said. 

“I’ll probably be able to get him first,” John said, and he was so matter-of-fact Harold couldn’t stand it. 

“And when you kill this man, what have you accomplished, who have you saved?” Harold asked. When John had no reply, he pressed on. An idea folded before him, brilliant and pure as any code. “You wanted to keep her safe. Killing him? That is merely revenge. Keep others safe--end this reign of terror--”

John raised his head to look at him. “Are...are you telling me to overthrow the imperial government, Finch?”

Harold paused. “I’m not saying it will be  _ easy _ ,” he conceded. “But...Mr. Reese, the Tantalus Field. Perhaps...but I must warn you--”

An alarm on the PADD went off, a strange, insistent beeping. He stilled, and fumbled for his communicator. He hailed Nathan.

“It’s time,” was all he said. 

Harold grabbed, the PADD, and struggled to get back up--hands gripped his elbow and wrist, and pulled him up. Harold paused--even John seemed confused by his action.

“You’d better come with me,” Harold finally said, and John fell in step next to him. “We have some things to discuss...and not much time.”

~*~

It was precisely two minutes and twenty-six seconds from the observation deck to the transporter room, and that was at a brisk pace. Harold monitored the field density fluctuations on the PADD while also explaining what John would find in Finch’s quarters, and a warning. 

“So it could kill with the push of a single button. But you broke it so it kills the person pushing the button instead.”

“I left very clear instructions,” Harold insisted.

“‘Whatever you do don’t ever use this device for assassination but surveillance is fine.’ You  _ are _ ruthless, Finch,” John’s face was still raw, purpose driving him forward. But the corner of his mouth ticked. “I like it.”

Finally, they were at the transporter room. They entered together, the door closing behind them. 

Nathan, Ms. Groves and Dr. Shaw were already there. They turned, their faces showing their own surprise. Both Ms. Groves and Dr. Shaw reached for the phasers on their belts. 

“Please, there is no need for that,” Harold told them. 

“Harold. What the hell is going on? Why is he here?” Nathan asked.

“We don’t have time.”

“Harold--”

“We don’t have  _ time. _ ” Harold emphasized, and he pushed forward to the transporter controls. From the corner of his eye, he could see John still by the door--Harold was struck by how awkward he looked, his curiously blank face, his rod-like stance. He looked like he didn’t even know where to put his hands when he wasn’t threatening a person.

Harold shook his head, and primed the transporter. “The optimal window will maintain for eight minutes,” he declared. “Please step onto the--”

The doors opened again-Harold pivoted on his heel. 

“I was expecting the entire landing party. But you, John. You I wasn’t expecting.”

Ms. Stanton walked into the room leisurely; her face a mockery, the phaser in her hand steady. Harold froze--John took a step in front of him.

Ms. Stanton noticed. “Now that I  _ really _ didn’t expect.” And she laughed. “Step away from the transporter controls, Mr. Finch,” she ordered, pointing her phaser towards him. 

Harold didn’t move. He only watched her, his hands still resting on the controls. 

“Stanton, put that phaser down,” Nathan said, narrowing his eyes. 

“I don’t think I will,” she replied, her smoky voice almost a song. “But I am tired of wasting time. See, they should have known going after Finch was a mistake. Oh, you’re not him,” she shared, “but I can still see it. Even you’re too inflexible. Too disciplined to give in.

“But your Captain,” she said, and she turned her phaser on Nathan. “He’s sentimental.  _ Soft. _ I don’t think you’re going to like what I’ll do to him if you don’t give me what I want,  _ Harold _ .”

Nathan looked at Harold, the order clear in his eyes.  _ ‘Don’t you dare.’ _

“Kara,” John said, and he took a step towards her. She swung the phaser towards him. “Don’t do this.”

“I told you a long time ago, John. You could be a killer, or a boy scout. But I was only going to put up with one.”

“Kara, the Empire--”

“Do you really think I’m doing this for the Empire,” she sneered. “ _ Fuck _ the Empire. Whatever was on that planet is my ticket far, far away from the Terra. I’m tired of playing the captain’s woman so the Empire can hoard it’s treasures. Maybe I’ll join the Klingons. I think we’d get along just--fine--”

Harold had glanced at the PADD resting on top of the transporter controls--the key to the Tantalus Field. Stanton noticed, and made her move. 

John brought his hands down on her phaser, and it clattered to the floor.  He took a punishing blow to the side for the bother. 

Suddenly, Shaw’s foot snapping forward towards Stanton’s knee--she lowered herself in time to get hit in the meat of her thigh instead, and her torso twisted to smash her elbow into Shaw’s zygomatic bone. The force knocked Shaw away, and she shook her head, trying to regain her sight. Groves was fast to fill the gap left by Shaw--they were sparring partners, Harold would remember later. 

Where Shaw was vicious with hard, fast blows, Groves’ fighting style was graceful, but no less powerful. She fought with a cool concentration that almost seemed...bored. Stanton blocked her long kicks, finally catching her leg and lunging back. Groves fell hard, and rolled out of the way of Stanton’s boot. 

John nearly got her in a neck hold, but she stamped on his insole, and twisted behind him. Hidden behind his tall frame, Harold never saw the knife she pulled from her thigh high boots.

He only saw the arch of John’s back as he grimaced, and with a slow but inevitable fall, he collapsed. 


	7. Chapter 7

“Harold, I think she stabbed me in the back,” John said, dazed. 

Stanton was fast--she had the PADD in her hands and was out of the transporter room before John had collapsed entirely. Harold found he didn't much care about what happened to her. 

“Dr. Shaw!” Harold panicked; he fell to his knees, reaching to staunch the flow of blood. He was emotionally compromised, he realized, his defenses down; he could see, feel John’s thoughts as he tried to press down on the wound. Shock. Disappointment. Even--

Shaw barked “Move!” as she slid next to him, her small hands covering Harold’s, replacing the pressure. Groves, always attuned to the needs in any situation, crouched next to Shaw, transporter med kit in hand. The two women moved like a dance--Groves made quick work of cutting away the back of John’s shirt as Shaw scanned him one handed with the medical tricorder. “Goddamnit, man,” she cursed, “next time don’t let her hit a goddamn artery.”

“We clean up...our own messes,” John breathed. 

“Groves! The vascular adhesive.”

“Dr. Shaw, can you stabilize him?” Harold asked. There was already so much blood. 

When she did not respond right away, Harold asked again. She looked at him, her face betraying nothing, which told him everything.

“Harry, she stabbed him in the back,” Groves began, soft. Logical. “What do you think is going to happen to him when we return home, and he’s left here? To them?”

Cold, long fingers touched the inside of his wrist--Harold startled as John’s thoughts once more swirled around him like incense. He looked down into John’s drained face; his blue eyes were a shock of color. “You have a truly appalling sense of humor, Mr. Reese,” Harold whispered as one thought wandered past.

“It was a nice dream,” John muttered; a smile fluttered across his face. “You need to go.”

John’s hand weakly pushed his wrist away. It was then Harold noticed the bright red pool he was kneeling in. He leaned back on his heels, entranced. 

Harold’s mother had found comfort in Vulcan philosophy though she had run from Vulcan society in her self-imposed exile on Earth. He did not find the same comfort in it as she had--although he could not deny the beauty of  _ Kol-Ut-Shan _ . Instead, Harold had found satisfaction in math and sciences. He lived for tangible uses for ethereal concepts. He was an engineer. Physics had laws, and he lived his life between those parameters.  

But Mr. Reese was still, his blood soaking the knees of Harold’s pants. He was going to die--and the reality of one death overrode all theoretical dangers. Reese had lost the woman he had loved, had done unspeakable things to protect her in the only way this world had deigned to offer. And now, his chance to change that world was slipping away, pooling around him.

“Get him on the transporter platform,” Harold ordered, pushing himself back to his feet. 

“Harold!” Nathan said as Harold ripped away the panel, revealing the transporter’s wiring. Finesse and precision was for less dire circumstances.

“Harold, even I know some of the basic theories of multiverse quantum!” Nathan hissed.

Yes, what would happen if there were two John Reeses in the world? And worse, if they met? There was no data about such a possibility, but the possibility was there that it would rip apart the fabric of space and time--

To  _ hell  _ with the laws of physics.

“Nathan, get on the transporter platform,” Harold said. It was not a request. 

Nathan crouched next to him. “You didn’t calibrate it for five people,” he continued, his voice urgent.  

“We have two minutes and fourteen seconds. Do not distract me further, Captain.”

He counted the time left in the ever diminishing optimal window as he pulled and spliced, coaxing every last bit of extra power he could from the warp power redirect. He stood, recalibrating the transporter equations. Less than a minute now-- 

Groves and Shaw had managed to manhandle John’s unconscious body onto the platform. A thought wandered into his head, distant and silvery like a white dwarf star light years away. 

There was more than enough power for transporting four. But he did not have the time to be certain there was enough power for five. In less dire circumstances, Nathan might have joked that Harold needed to take a leap of faith.

But transporting four was as safe as the math could promise. 

Harold looked up; but the words died before he could speak them, for Nathan had one foot on the transporter, one foot on the steps. Leaning towards Harold, his face held 20-years worth of ‘don’t you dare’.

Harold ran to the platform, pushing Nathan into position. 

“Energize!” 

And the world slipped away into pure energy.

~*~

For years after, while he meditated, Harold felt the wisps of memories that could not be his. Some left over of the moment of transference? A figment of his imagination? A flight of fancy?

In bits and pieces he could see Lieutenant Carter in front of him, phaser unwavering as the security crew, groaning, rose to their feet. “--and get the _ hell  _ off of my ship,” she was saying, and the rage was so hot within him, the insult of it all it sometimes haunted him. 

What he knew was that when they rematerialized, Lieutenant Carter kept the phaser in her hand trained on them even as she hit the intercom. “Emergency medical team to the main transporter room, one unknown male, full code,” she was saying as Nathan and Groves guided Harold off the platform to make room. 

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you all a few questions before I hand back over command, Captain,” Carter said--Harold was only distantly aware of what she was saying. He watched as Shaw’s team lifted John’s frame onto the biobed, and honestly wondered if he would ever see him alive again. 

“Carter, believe me, I appreciate your caution,” Nathan sighed. “Harold? Harold?”

Harold looked back at Nathan, who looked down. His face twitched with empathy. “You’d better get cleaned up,” he said, gently. 

Harold looked down--they had been restored to their proper uniforms, and the knees of his pants were dry. But his hands were still stained red with human blood. 

Harold allowed security to escort him to the facilities, fascinating by how how the blood had taken on a copper tone.

He was not accustomed to the sight. 

  
  


**Five Days Later….**

Harold paused before the observation deck door. He tightened his grip on the PADD under his arm. 

The door slid open, and John--

\--Mr. Reese was already there waiting for him, standing stiffly as he gazed out the observation window. Dr. Shaw was a master of her craft, but he had only been released from Medbay earlier that day. 

(“I should have kept him another day, but he’s a terrible patient, worse than you. Next time I’ll hypospray him until I say he can leave,” Shaw had growled.

“Thank you, Dr. Shaw,” Harold had replied, stunned by how deeply he meant it. 

She stared at him with her particularly inscrutable look. “Yea well. I better not regret saving him,” she said, and he was dismissed.)

Missing was the red uniform of Operations and Security, the gold sash, and the severe goatee. He had been given fresh clothes in his size, a black shirt and pants--an easy enough task for a replicator. Shaw had mentioned he’d asked for a razor before he’d been discharged. 

He turned at the sound of the door opening. The Beta shift lighting from the flight deck washed out his pale face. His blue eyes were startling. 

“I was a little surprise you were so eager to see me again, Finch,” he finally said, his face brittle.  

“Thank you for meeting with me. I did not wish to disturb the medical team by having this conversation in medbay,” Harold began.

“You didn’t want to disturb Dr. Shaw,” Mr. Reese replied. 

Harold’s eyebrows twitched. “You are a very astute man, Mr. Reese.”

“Dr. Shaw is very...cantankerous.” 

Harold slowly, but surely walked closer to Mr. Reese until he stood an arm’s length away. 

“I’ve been catching up,” Mr. Reese began, looking back out the observation window. “I suppose you’re to thank for the history data cards?”

“I left a note,” Harold said, slightly annoyed. “I assure you Mr. Reese, I was not trying to avoid you. There were many questions and concerns that the Captain and I have been debriefing Starfleet Command on since our return. Oh, I have something to show you,” he remembered, and handed Mr. Reese the PADD. 

Mr. Reese turned back and took the PADD, but his eyes found Harold’s. He blinked, and looked towards the door. “I was expecting you to come with a security team,” he said.

“And why would I do that?” Harold asked, cocking his head. 

This seemed to startle Mr. Reese, but he recovered quickly. His posture relaxed, his eyes went soft as he raised the PADD.

“We felt it was a good solution to our little predicament,” Harold explained, trying not to be obvious as he peered under his glasses to look at the PADD as well.  

“You’re giving me a position under probation,” Mr. Reese realized. 

“If you accept it. You are free to disembark at any Federation base or planet,” Harold said, quick to reassure him. “We’re working on your identity papers, but the Captain and I had quite a few favors to call in. I would personally feel more comfortable once I was certain you understood your rights, and of course, responsibilities as a Federation citizen--”

“I was waiting to be taken to a penal colony.”

Harold blinked. “Were you planning on doing something illegal, Mr. Reese?”

“I’m not--” Mr. Reese rasped. He held the PADD listlessly in his hands, his eyes unfocused. “I’m a weapon.”

“You are human, Mr. Reese. And all that that implies.” Harold’s fingers twitched. “I admit I am taking a liberty--but I felt what you need isn’t a prison, or some backwater colony to disappear into. No, what you need is a job.” 

Mr. Reese looked back down at the PADD. 

“Security is the easiest department to add you to, unless there was a particular field you studied?” Harold prompted. 

Mr. Reese stirred. “Astrometrics.”

Harold blinked again. “You are a stellar cartographer?” he asked, trying to keep the surprise out of his voice. 

Mr. Reese shook his head once. “Before I was recruited. But my primary function was as an operative,” he said instead, looking away. 

“Why Astrometrics?” Harold asked, fascinated.

“Why Engineering?” Mr. Reese replied.

Harold hasn’t noticed he’d been leaning towards Mr. Reese. He took a step back. “I know you’ll...want to bridge the gap in your knowledge. I will of course, assist you in any way possible, but when it comes to personal inquiries...I really am a very private person,” he ended lamely. 

“I already know everything I need to know about you, Harold,” Reese said.

The sense memory of their meld came back to Harold. He could feel a blush rising in the tip of his ears. Had John--

“You’re the kind of person who saves the life of the man who threatened to kill you. And then you offer him a job.” Mr. Reese paused. “I won’t forget that.”

Harold found himself at a loss for words. “I...should be going,” he finally said. 

“Did you ever find him?” Mr. Reese said before Harold could turn to leave. Harold looked at him quizzically. “Are there any planets I should avoid?” he emphasized. 

“That....won’t be an issue,” Harold carefully said once he realized.

Reese’s face took on his curiously blank expression. “So he’s dead. That’s convenient.”

Harold opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again. “How much did you find?” Reese asked, and it almost sounded casual.

“Everything.”

“Everything? Well. That’s two universes where you know everything about me. That’s starting to feel unfair.” But Harold’s face shuttered at his attempt at humor. Mr. Reese’s eyes widened. “Jessica?”

Harold flinched, and shook his head. “Mr. Reese--” he began.

“I need to know,” Mr. Reese rasped, interrupting him.

“You were in Starfleet--I was able to locate your records in archives,” he said, slowly, softly, trying to soften the blow. “You left to marry Jessica, even took her name. Very old-fashioned of you,” Harold continued, a small smile flashing on his lips. But it vanished as he pressed on. “You were happily married for six months on a Federation colony. There was a seismic event--it was predicted, we should have--we should have been sent there for evacuation--”

“Harold--”

“The official report says you were able to save four fellow colonists before the building collapsed. Jessica was with you--”

“I’m not him,” Mr. Reese’s voice cut through Harold’s rising agitation. “That wasn’t my life.” 

Harold took a deep breath, and nodded. 

They left the observation deck together.  No one stopped to salute them as they passed by, though some greeted Harold by name, or with a nod. Harold nodded back. They reached a split in the corridor.

“We’ve assigned you to guest quarters until you are official assigned,” Harold explained.  

“I should get back to those history data cards,” Mr. Reese said.

Crew in red, blue and gold passed them by as if they didn’t matter. As if what happened didn’t matter. 

“I'm almost sorry she got the Tantalus Field," Mr. Reese muttered. "But knowing Kara, she's not one to hand over an edge unless it's in the back."

Harold turned, appalled until he noticed the small upwards tick in the corner of Mr. Reese's mouth. He supposed there was some manner of humor to be found in the situation, though he found no joy in the idea. "What good it might do her, I find I have no desire to know," Harold admitted. He glanced back over at him. “We’ll have to find you science blues,” Harold said, his tone final. “The replicators can manage basic wear, but it’s a pity they can’t quite manage the uniform shirts.”

“Oh?”

“We found that out the hard way. You’d be surprised how many shirts Nathan goes through--speaking of, he asked to see me once we were done. Goodbye, Mr. Reese.”

Mr. Reese raised his hand, and gave a slight wiggle of his fingers.

Lieutenant Commander Harold Finch turned, and walked away. 


	8. CODA

“Harold, we need to talk.”

“Agreed.”

Nathan leaned back in his chair as Harold took a seat across from him. “Well, you first,” Nathan sighed. 

Harold folded his hands in his lap. “The numbers will now be sent directly, and automatically, to Starfleet Command.”

Nathan stilled. “What?”

“ We'll no longer have access to it. I've close the system and locked the Machine.”

Nathan’s face grew slack, but then his eyes flashed. “You...like  _ hell _ you have!” he yelled, his hand slamming down. “What were you thinking!”

Harold had expected an outburst, but he blinked at the sound of Nathan’s hand hitting the desk. He pushed forward, knowing he had to remain calm, knowing--

Hoping Nathan would see.

“When we--when I began work on this experiment I knew there would come a choice,” Harold began, keeping his voice soft, but clear. “I put it off, because the purpose of the Machine was too important.”

“So we’d never be too late ever again,” Nathan said, with the quiet intensity of an old, precious oath.

“ I built an AI capable of shifting through a Quadrant's worth of data, and pinpointing where disaster was going to strike. I had to build a supercomputer that would not be broken by a child’s logic puzzle, something that could predict not only natural disasters, but the errors, the fallacies, the violence of sentient beings. And more than that,” he continued, trying to keep his voice calm, his face impassive, “I had to build an AI that would only point in a direction--not to demand, not to give orders. It needed the intuition of...of a human. But still existing to serve.”

“And you did it. It took you 42 tries but that’s what we have, Harold,” Nathan insisted, leaning forward.  

“I was so concerned at the dangers of building an AI capable of understanding not just natural dangers but the petty failures of people that I deluded myself, ignored the greater threat.”

“Well you’re just going to have to spell it out for me,” Nathan snapped.

“The choice-- I deluded myself into thinking it would be hard, but in the end it would be far too easy. Keeping access open to the Machine’s processes, its solutions would lead to such temptation. I thought it would be enough,” Harold confessed. “Sending the Numbers in coded messages, giving Command intelligence the clue of where to look, to go. I told myself that sending just the Numbers was to protect ourselves. That we weren't meddling through the Machine’s surveillance. But back there, in that parallel world, I  _ meddled _ , Nathan.  I intended to change that world, and I fear I have. I completely disregarded the Prime Directive.”

“The Prime Directive?” Nathan scoffed. “This is about the Prime Directive?”

“The Prime Directive is to protect other civilizations from us imposing our morals and ideals. And with unfettered access to the computation power of the Machine what would stop us from turning our eyes on other planets, other governments, and calculating how best to mold them in the image of the Federation?”

“Well, I don’t know about you, Harold,” Nathan said, rolling his eyes, “But I feel pretty ok with imposing morals on a murder universe! Besides,” he continued with a shake of his head. “The Prime Directive is for the protection of less technologically advanced civilizations,  _ and _ isn’t a rule. It’s a guideline.”

“It is not an idea to tread lightly with,” Harold said, his spine straightening.

“No, Harold,” Nathan said, his voice edged with annoyance. “We’ve been in Starfleet too long to treat the Prime Directive as a golden rule. I’m telling you, the Prime Directive is a good guideline. But if ever codified will make  Starfleet so frightened of playing God it will forget to be  _ humane _ ! I will put money that on that day, it will honestly consider condemning a civilization to their own planet’s destruction because they don’t dare play  _ God _ . But they’ll be the kind of God that had the power to do good, and did NOTHING.  The Prime Directive?” Nathan’s eyes narrowed, searching Harold’s face. “That’s a  poor excuse for not helping people in need.”

“Who do you think you are to say that?” Harold whispered.

“Who do--how can you ask ME who I am for saying that?!” Nathan shot back, raising his voice.

“You have  _ pushed _ to investigate every Number,” Harold began, and the words were rolling out of him like an avalanche. “To visit every coordinate, even if it was in direct insubordination of Starfleet orders. And even then could I barely talk you down. And the times I couldn’t? We,  _ somehow _ , were lucky enough to not be censured.  Or worst, dishonorably discharged.”

“All those years ago you said you’d follow me, Harold,” Nathan finally said, his jaw tight.

“Into space!” Harold sputtered. “Not to--run  _ amok  _ through the Alpha Quadrant playing hero! I did not build the Machine for your mid-life crisis!”

Nathan’s jaw twitched and he rose. He leaned forward, his fists resting on the desktop. Harold leaned back in his seat, looking up. He refused to let Nathan use his height to intimidate him.

“It’s a marvel, Harold, a goddamn marvel,” he began. Bile rose in the back of Harold’s throat at the look of contempt on Nathan’s face. “You’ve created a Machine that is capable to knowing when a planet needs Starfleet’s help, of when  _ one person _ needs our help! But you’re afraid of  _ meddling.” _

“ It is not our place to save each and every person,” Harold insisted. “The Machine was built with the knowledge that the needs of the many will always outweigh the needs of the few... or the one.”

“Either your Machine can be used for good, or it can’t! Either we implement it or we pull the plug!”

“There’s also the fact that the more people know about the Machine, the greater risk there is of it falling into the wrong hands,” Harold pushed forward, but in his heart he knew he had lost any control of the conversation. 

“The wrong hands?” Nathan repeated. “One day we will have to let Command in on just what we’ve been working on all these years, you know.”

“Starfleet is still made of people, Nathan.”

Nathan stopped. He stared at Harold, and a sharp laugh escaped his mouth as if he’d been punched in the sternum. It was an ugly sound. “You know every time you say that I can’t help but think what you’re really saying is Starfleet is made of humans,” Nathan said slowly.

“Do not make this personal--” Harold rushed to say.

“Well it is  _ personal _ , Harold! My God, you don’t trust ‘us’, do you?”

“Nathan, I AM half human,” Harold pointed out, brows furrowed. “You are letting your emotions cloud your judgment--”

“Oh, am I being  _ illogical _ , Harold? L ogic !” Nathan declared as he pushed away from the desk. He began pacing, short, furious bursts of movement. “ I'm sick to death of logic ! Do you want to know how I feel about your  _ logic _ ? ” he sneered, turning back on Harold. “Always trying to code your way out of having to be responsible for what your decisions do! You’ll bend over backwards to make sure that nothing you personally do has any consequences! ”

“ What are you really saying, Nathan?” Harold finally asked.

“I saw that look on your face, Harold, back there. Back in the transporter room,” Nathan said. His voice cut through the silence. “I know what you were thinking. You honestly considered staying behind to save us.”

“It was--” But the word ‘logical’ died on his lips at the broken look on Nathan’s face. “Yes. I had considered it.”

Harold could hear the white noise of the Enterprise, maddening in the silence between them. Nathan turned away as he ran his hand through his hair. Time stretched between them. “That is not a call you have the right to make,” Nathan said. 

Harold started to protest, but Nathan cut him off. “You are a  _ hypocrite _ ,” he said, and the words stabbed through Harold. “You’ll wax philosophic about the temptation of the Machine but you’ll risk your own safety for someone you don’t even know. And the worst part,” Nathan laughed again. “If I told you you are too important to risk you’ll just accuse me of letting my ‘emotions’ cloud my judgement. You’ll just insist that you’re not ‘relevant’. So let me make this clear--not as your friend, but as your Captain.”

Nathan drew himself to his full height, tilting his head up as he looked down at Harold. “You, as my First Officer and as the Chief Engineer aboard the Starship Enterprise, are too important to the safety and continuing functionality of this ship to risk. You will  _ never _ do that again. Have I made myself clear?”

“Indubitably,” Harold hissed, cold and furious.

The air hung between, but neither man would bend. Nathan’s mouth pressed to a thin line.

“Get out.” Nathan didn’t yell it, he didn’t even raise his voice. The finality, however, the disgust behind the clipped words--

Harold obliged.

~*~

Lieutenant Groves was lost in thought, straining to comprehend the strange static lying just underneath the Lieutenant Commander’s outgoing transmission. It was a standard First Officer log for Command. And yet-- 

“Excuse me? Excuse me, Lieutenant?” 

She turned to look, but didn’t take her earpiece out. An ensign was holding a PADD. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but you’ll need to review and sign this,” he apologized. 

She took the PADD absently, her thoughts still trying to decipher the anomaly she had picked up. 

“Is...something wrong, Lieutenant?” the ensign asked. He was nervous. 

“Hmm?” she said. She sighed. The Captain often told her she had to be more patient with the ensigns. Sameen always sniped that if ensigns were supposed to be coddled she would have joined a nursery, not Starfleet. “Nothing to be concerned about,” she said smoothly. She scrolled through the PADD, and seeing no problems, signed off. “Just doing my job,” she said with a pointed smile as she handed the PADD back. 

The ensign stammered as he made his escape. The smile faded from Groves’ face as she tapped her own log open. She’d noticed the same underlying anomaly before in out-going transmissions. 

“Computer, isolate the following frequency, cross reference against all outgoing transmissions in the last four months,” she stipulated. The Computer complied.

Groves began searching through the logs. The only discernible pattern was that they were all messages being sent to Starfleet Command. 

“Computer. Isolate all recorded occurrences of the following frequency,” she said. 

The Computer worked to compile the data, and Lieutenant Groves turned back to more pressing work. She was good at patience, and she’d figure out what was happening soon enough.

She was sure about that. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> END NOTES:
> 
> Months ago when I just introduced @Fantasyprincess to POI when we were in the giddy thralls of first falling in love with the show, we started shooting the shit about a lot of ridiculous crossovers or AU we’d like to see, even write. I suggested a Star Trek/POI story, but quickly dismissed it: “But who would be the Spock?” I laughed. 
> 
> Considering this was suppose to be a one shot that has spawned at least ***6*** additional stories I’ve outlined in this crossover AU, I’m still laughing but it’s the sort of laugh that makes the doctors’ nervous. 
> 
> I didn’t intend to make this a 5 year mission fic? And I certainly hope that if you’ve enjoyed it so far, and that you’ll stay tuned to this series: title taken of course from the Star Trek Original Series “I, MUDD”. It felt...appropriate. 
> 
> I have no idea how to Fandom anymore, or if POI even *has* an active fandom anymore. Is anybody there? Does anybody care? /1776 reference.
> 
> I would like to personally thank Star Trek for it’s bullshit explanation of why people still might need glasses. Kol-Ut-Shan is Vulcan for Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations, or IDIC. 
> 
> As I continue the next story in the series (spoilers, it includes flashbacks to Nathan and Harold’s years at Starfleet Academy, including one particular No Win Scenario) I leave you with random chat notes from my writing process that may either amuse you or make you distraught:
> 
> ~This is the slowest burn for the following ships: Root/Shaw, Harold/Nathan (past), Harold/Reese. Like, SLOWEST BURN TO THE FARTHEST NEBULA. But that's where my heart lies, and that's where my notes go. 
> 
> ~Fantasyprincess: omg WE SHOULD WRITE A POI SURVIVAL GUIDE!  
> ME: "How to Succeed at Person of Interest Without Really Crying: Lesson One- that's impossible, you will become emotionally compromised"
> 
> ~reese is just like *blank panic face* ‘what crazy utopian nonsense is this Federation’
> 
> ~rewatching ST, Fusco really IS the Chekov lol
> 
> ~According to the Enterprise schematics, the Chief Engineer and the Chief Medical Officer share a bathroom. JFC this shit will write itself.
> 
> ~OMFG I put Team Machine in space and it became “Banned from Argo” just wait until Reese and Shaw burn down the local dope bazaar because noone roofies their Half-Vulcan
> 
> ~I’m not saying Pon Farr. But Pon Farr.
> 
> ~i just got this idea of Harold waxing philosophic about IDIC, and Shaw just snorting and being like "see, Vulcans like to pretend they are above all this emotional stuff, but they just hide it under their philosophy. I bet Harold here has written an Ode to Pi" *disgruntled Vulcan eyebrow*
> 
> ~Shaw would be an absolute terror with the hyposprays
> 
> ~If you don’t think I won’t have Nathan cold-cock quote Spock’s mom you are out of your Vulcan mind.
> 
> ~WRATH OF GREER!!!!!!!!!
> 
> ~I think I just plotted up to the Search for Reese send help
> 
> ~OMG I'm crying about a sentient Enterprise... #YouThinkImKidding #ButNo #StupidHormones lol
> 
> ~Ok but really, i need you to imagine Harold Finch saying “They like you very much, but they are not the hell "your" whales”. Go on, I’ll wait. 
> 
> ~Oh my giddy aunt Chief Engineer Harold Finch sitting at an 80s computer, sniffing “Oh, a keyboard. How quaint”. 
> 
> -ME: UGH I CAN’T BELIEVE I FORGOT PADD IS COMPLETELY CAPITALIZED.  
> FantasyPrincess: Well, you’re only human. 
> 
> ~Me: ASTROMETRY: JOHN JUST NEEDS TO KNOW HIS RELATIVE PLACE IN TIME AND SPACE AND MORALITY  
> HAROLD IS THE CELESTIAL BODY THAT KEEPS HIM IN GRAVITATIONAL ORBIT  
> I'M NOT CRYING OVER MY OWN FUCKING FIC YOU'RE CRYING


End file.
